


mumbling of wicked charms

by thepaininit



Category: King Lear - Shakespeare
Genre: (i think that's how to describe it...warlock pacts can be rough), Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Dungeons & Dragons, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Gen, Half-drow!Edmund, Sorcerer!Edgar, Sorcerer!Gloucester (but he doesn't do much), Warlock!Edmund, also sorry i unironically ship edmund/goneril and now you have to put up with my agenda, most other canon characters make a brief appearance, similar plot as canon just with COOL MAGIC, this is incredibly niche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26076631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepaininit/pseuds/thepaininit
Summary: The wronged son who learns to change his face and embrace the chaos. The bastard who can bend people to his will with only a few words. It's King Lear, but the Gloucester bloodline carries more than just a noble title. Wild magic can only be tamed for so long, and getting by without it requires courting much darker forces to keep up.Basically, the D&D-themed Gloucester boys AU I can't stop thinking about. Edgar is a Wild Magic Sorcerer and Edmund is a Warlock of the Archfey.
Relationships: Edmund/Goneril (King Lear), Edmund/his sexy evil warlock patron, Minor Edmund/Regan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	mumbling of wicked charms

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my niche trash! I'm very sorry I'm like this.
> 
> Basically, as stated in the description, this is an AU inspired by D&D, specifically 5th edition, but it should read just fine as a general fantasy AU even if you've never played. I've included quotes from the 5e players' handbook throughout to sort of explain things and act as general markers, but here's the run-down:
> 
> Edgar and Edmund are both different kinds of magic-users. Both of them can cast spells with various effects; all the important ones should be explained along the way. Edgar is a Sorcerer, meaning his magic is innate and basically just an instinctive part of him. In this case, it comes from his bloodline. Every human in the Gloucester family has had a similar magical ability for generations, but none of them have explored it much for fear of being labeled dangerous. This is partially because Edgar is specifically a Wild Magic Sorcerer, meaning he has some control over fate and luck, and every time he casts a spell, there's a minor chance that it will produce a random, chaotic, and potentially-dangerous magical effect. 
> 
> Edmund is a Warlock, meaning he wasn't born with magic but acquired it through a deal with a powerful being. In his case, it's an Archfey, or fey royalty. I've also made Edmund half-drow, meaning his mother was a drow, a race of elves that traditionally live underground and are largely considered evil and monstrous. This is just meant to be a fantasy translation of his status as a bastard and the moral judgments and stigma that come with it, as well as the reason he didn't inherit Gloucester's magic.
> 
> That should be all you need to know! :)

_Wild Magic – Your innate magic comes from the wild forces of chaos that underlie the order of creation. You might have endured exposure to some form of raw magic, perhaps through a planar portal leading to Limbo, the Elemental Planes, or the mysterious Far Realm. Perhaps you were blessed by a powerful fey creature or marked by a demon. Or your magic could be a fluke of your birth, with no apparent cause or reason. However it came to be, this chaotic magic churns within you, waiting for any outlet._

Doing magic always leaves Edgar with a funny taste in his mouth.

It’s not that it feels _wrong_ , exactly. On the contrary, it’s more how right it feels that occasionally disturbs him. He’s been able to cast almost as long as he’s been able to walk and talk. It came just as easily too, an instinctual drive within him that felt entirely natural.

Only, walking never drained the life from one of his nurses, nearly killing her. Talking never set his bedroom on fire.

The tricks he’s doing now are innocent enough. Miniature showers of sparks burst from his fingertips, changing from yellow to blue to pink as he shifts his hand’s position ever so slightly, finding the right motions without having been taught how.

“It’s all very harmless,” his father is saying to the group of visiting lords standing around him, who are all curiously watching the young heir show off his novice magical talent. “Playful little things for a boy. I did them too. It’s healthy, really, for him to work on it. He’ll be able to fully control it in a few years and then, well, grow out of it mostly, at least until he needs to liven up a boring state dinner.”

The men titter as Edgar’s father ruffles his hair.

“You’ve been practicing,” he says fondly. “Not that you need it. He’s a natural. Show them the little illusion from the other day.”

The sparks fade as Edgar frowns, suddenly hesitant.

“Can you?”

“You remember how,” his father says, and then to the lords, “I think he just likes it when I do magic. I don’t do much these days, you know that.”

The lords are leaning forward, interested.

The Earl of Gloucester wavers a moment but seems to relax. He smiles indulgently and murmurs a few words until a small illusory heart appears in his hand. He holds it out to Edgar, who reaches out to try and touch it, though he knows his fingers will pass through.

“Alright then. Your go,” his father encourages, quickly dismissing the image.

Edgar bites his lip. He feels strange again, a feeling he’s coming to recognize but can’t yet prevent. His fingers and toes tingle as he begins to cast, almost in spite of himself, trying to replicate the little heart. The image appears for a split second, bigger and brighter than it should be, but it’s overshadowed instantly as Edgar’s whole body begins to glow, bathing the space around him in dazzling white light.

“Ah—as I said, he’ll grow out of this,” Gloucester laughs nervously, stepping back and gesturing for the lords around him to do the same. “Don’t worry; we’ll only be blind for a moment. We’re working on control.”

Edgar turns away, only meaning to avoid looking at his father, and finds his eyes locked with the younger boy sitting in the corner of the room. The boy is flinching visibly. His half-drow blood means sunlight does not harm him, but a focused, intense glow is more than enough to cause discomfort. His eyes are brimming too – from the light, Edgar assumes, because he can’t think what else could be wrong. Still, as the men in the room shield their gazes, the boy fixes his on his brother’s glowing form and does not look away.

.

_Half-Elf – Walking in two worlds but truly belonging to neither, half-elves combine what some say are the best qualities of their elf and human parents: human curiosity, inventiveness, and ambition tempered by the refined senses, love of nature, and artistic tastes of the elves. Some half-elves live among humans, set apart by their emotional and physical differences, watching friends and loved ones age while time barely touches them. Others live with the elves, growing restless as they reach adulthood in the timeless elven realms, while their peers continue to live as children. Many half-elves, unable to fit into either society, choose lives of solitary wandering or join with other misfits and outcasts in the adventuring life._

Edmund is used to being the odd one out.

He turns a page, trying to focus harder on the book open before him, but he can still hear the shouts of Edgar and his friends in the courtyard outside. Whoever designed this library, he has thought more than once, was not very good at their job. Ornate pillars and pleasing stained glass are lovely, but one would think the foremost goal of such a space would be silence. That, or the humans for which it was designed just do not have Edmund’s keen senses, and never have this problem. Maybe he is the defective one.

He doesn’t mind his blood though, not really. He only minds that others mind. He minds the way Edgar’s friends laugh, call him “bastard” or “half-breed,” prod at his greyish skin and white hair. He minds the way their amusement turns to fear if he so much as dares to react, as if they expect him to come for them, reveal himself to be just as supposedly-evil as the ancestors he never even knew. He minds the way his father’s friends do none of these things, but simply avert their eyes every time he walks into a room. He almost minds that more.

He minds the fact that his father and brother always frown and shoot him pitying looks and apologize later but ultimately, in the moment, do nothing.

These, he tells himself, are faults of society, not him. The genuine differences are few and insignificant. Sure, he cannot always join Edgar outside on long summer days, since the sunburns are painful and severe. It hardly matters. He will have his days in the sun eventually, in the lifetime that is due to last nearly twice as long as his brother’s. He can see in the dark where his brother is near-blind. He is better at resisting certain magic that would seek to control his will.

The point is, he could believe that he is not at all inferior, just stuck in an unfair world. If it weren’t for the magic.

The parlor tricks are nothing to envy. Those are superficial, a trait of his father’s bloodline on the same level as his pale skin and his rounded ears and his surname. But Edmund hasn’t spent all this time in the library for nothing. There is more his father is capable of. More Edgar is capable of, _much_ more, even if he doesn’t know it.

They could change things. Big things. Edmund might be stuck in an unfair world, but his family members could actually alter it, if they wanted. They could be the ones to make it more fair.

And they don’t. For fear of danger, chaos, or so his father says, but that’s not quite the truth. He is afraid of losing his respectability. He is afraid of being seen as a threat for no good reason, because he is noble and human and legitimate, and that can be an abstract fear for him, not a reality of life. So, he just doesn’t.

And Edmund can’t.

Not for lack of trying, of course. He’s poured over his father’s books. Studied into the night for days, weeks, months, just to achieve a weak version of a cantrip Edgar has been casting since he was three years old.

He could spend every day of his doubly long life reading. It will never be enough.

.

_Tides of Chaos – Starting at 1st level, you can manipulate the forces of chance and chaos to gain advantage on one attack roll, ability check, or saving throw. Once you do so, you must finish a long rest before you can use this feature again. Any time before you regain the use of this feature, the DM can have you roll on the Wild Magic Surge table immediately after you cast a sorcerer spell of 1st level or higher. You then regain the use of this feature._

Edgar is still trembling when Edmund finds him. His fingers clutch the arms of his chair as if for dear life, as if it can anchor him, make him forget the feeling of floating in an endless grey void with no end in sight.

“Edgar?”

It’s _over_. He’s back here, back home. It only lasted a few seconds. And he never has to go back, not if he’s careful. Not if he doesn’t keep trying…whatever it was his magic wanted to try.

“Edgar?” Edmund says again. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“What?”

“I said fine.”

The silence stretches for a long time, too long, until Edgar’s mind is back on soundless, featureless, empty space and—

“What were you trying to do?”

Edgar bites his lip. Talking about magic with Edmund is always awkward, to say the least. Half the times Edgar brings it up he seems insatiably curious; the other half bitter and cold. Plus, it’s a strange thing to explain to someone who’s never experienced it.

“It’s…instinctual you know?” he begins uncertainly. “I don’t, I mean, I wasn’t really _trying_ , but something happened. Changed…changed my face, I think, but then I wasn’t there anymore and…it…it was a bad idea. Dad said it was a bad idea. It happens more when I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Right.”

It’s hard to place Edmund’s expression. Almost hungry, maybe. Or maybe a little disappointed.

“How much have you read about your magic, Edgar?” he asks softly.

“Not much. I don’t have to, you know, it’s not like that—”

“I know,” Edmund interrupts. “But there’s more to it than Dad tells you. They’ve written people like you. The kind of things you could do if you tried. If you…pushed the boundaries.”

“What kind of things?” Edgar asks, and instantly wants to take the words back. His brother is smiling too widely.

“You could bend fate,” he whispers. “Make things more or less likely, just on a whim. Control the tides of nature. You could change so much. Do so much good.”

It’s a strange thought. A terrifying thought. He wishes he could say it’s never crossed his mind before.

Edgar shakes himself.

“That’s very dangerous,” he says, sounding surer than he feels. “Bad things would happen. You can’t mess with fate.”

“But _you_ can.”

“No, I _can’t_ ,” he insists. “I got sent to the Astral Plane today, and that’s not even the worst thing my magic’s ever done. Do you know what could happen if I tried something like that?”

“Then what’s the point?”

“What?”

“What’s the point?” Edmund asks again. His tone is even, but he’s leaning forward, intensity in his bright green eyes – one of the few features the brothers have in common. “If Dad said he was an earl, but he never enforced a law, never judged a case, never made his voice heard at court, never changed a single thing about what happened in his land, what would be the point? Would he even be an earl anymore? Power is supposed to be used. Otherwise, it’s nothing.”

“It’s…it’s tradition. I know you don’t like it. That’s all it is though. It’s blood, it’s family, it’s – no, it’s not really family, but it’s a symbol, you know? It’s power, but it’s not supposed to be that much, or people would get scared. Like, Dad is an earl, and that’s fine, but if he started trying to become king or something—”

“But what if he would be a better king? What if he would help the kingdom? Wouldn’t that matter?”

_“What?”_

“There’s incredibly high-level magic,” Edmund says. He’s picking up speed now, punctuating his speech with confident gestures. “Your kind of magic. You could shape the fabric of reality with a word. You could wish for something, anything, and it would happen. Think of anything wrong in the world. You could change it, if you wanted. Edgar—”

“Edmund!”

Edgar’s mind is racing a mile a minute, and he can feel panic settling in his throat. He’s thinking of what he knows, what his father has told him, that there hasn’t been a high-level mage in the family for centuries, maybe millennia, that even basic magic risks catastrophic consequences. He’s thinking of his brother, and his sudden, unexplainable enthusiasm for a world he will never be a part of. He’s thinking of the forces he’s felt and not had a name for, the sense that if he just pushed, just a little, he _could_ change things, really change things. And then he’s thinking of floating again, unmoored, alone in a wasteland like the end times had come and he was the only one left.

“Stop it!” he snaps. “Don’t talk about things you can’t understand.”

He fixes his eyes on the floor after that, so he doesn’t have to think about the wounded look on Edmund’s face as he leaves.

.

_The Archfey – Your patron is a lord or lady of the fey, a creature of legend who holds secrets that were forgotten before the mortal races were born. This being’s motivations are often inscrutable, and sometimes whimsical, and might involve a striving for greater magical power or the settling of age-old grudges. Beings of this sort include the Prince of Frost; the Queen of Air and Darkness, ruler of the Gloaming Court; Titania of the Summer Court; her consort Oberon, the Green Lord; Hyrsam, the Prince of Fools; and ancient hags._

“So tell me...what is it you want so badly?”

Edmund shudders, looking up at the figure in front of him. This is his only chance. He cannot lose his nerve now.

The books have brought him here. Not his father’s, but other books, things that can scarcely be called books, ancient scraps of paper in foreign languages, whispers from strangers in the darkest outskirts of town. There are multiple ways to acquire magic, but most require a considerable amount of luck, or talent, or both. For this way, he must have only what he already has – a strong will and very little to lose.

He tries to think how to word it. Subtleties matter when it comes to these deals. The first word that crosses his mind is humiliating, even to himself. To ask for something so ill-defined and sentimental from an otherworldly being would be absurd.

She is a difficult creature to understand. The texts he encountered used the word Archfey, which seems accurate, but she is still just one of many. The Queen of Air and Darkness, they call her, or simply the Queen; any true name eluded his research. Her form in person looks almost elven, but with exaggerated features, nearly-translucent white skin, pitch black hair and eyes. She is not clothed but wrapped in a bodice of dark vines that move of their own accord. Sometimes she seems less a being in her own right and more an extension of nature itself.

“I want respect,” Edmund says. “Sway. Esteem. Influence. People listen to my father just because of his title and his blood. I want that kind of power. I want people to be decent to me, favor me, do what I ask, and not even question why.”

The Queen grins, and Edmund swears he feels dizzy in a way he never has from any normal humanoid presence. A current of air brushes against his face, almost like a draft, except that it’s warm and smells of foreign flowers.

“I can work with that,” she agrees. “All I’d ask is what you would offer me in return?”

This is the moment. Edmund steels himself.

“I can do things for you,” he says, still neutral, testing the waters. “I don’t know your particular areas of interest, but I’m happy to be your agent. I could do your bidding, spy, sew rumors. Whatever you want.”

“I see,” the Queen intones. She’s very close to him; he can feel her presence radiating against his skin. “But I am already quite good at getting what I want.”

The effect comes over him all at once, more dizziness, this time combined with the knowledge that he would kill for this being, die for her, serve her every whim and feel only pleasure doing it. He shakes himself and manages to clear his head.

“Interesting,” she says. The air feels colder, but not threatening exactly, just sharp, curious. “Very interesting. You’ve got quite a mind.”

“Thank you?”

The Queen smiles wider and reaches out. She runs a hand through his hair, then down his face, then brushes her fingers across his chest with a touch that is both warm and cold at once.

He should be terrified, probably. He should not be so enamored. He should be thinking of the fact that she could kill him in a second, not the fact that he has not been touched so openly, so _lovingly_ , in what must be years.

“You know,” she murmurs, “I could get you more than respect. Much more. I could get you real power, if you’re bold enough to use it.”

Edmund has never been looked at this way before. He’s seen people disgusted, afraid, pitying, but never so impressed.

“Aren’t you?”

Why shouldn’t he be? Isn’t that his whole problem with his father and brother, that they had power from the start but never were?

“I could be,” he says. “What would you have of me for that?”

“Quite a mind,” the Queen says again. “But you’ll need that.”

“Not my mind,” Edmund agrees. That would be too much to give up.

“No. No, not at all. Your heart, on the other hand?”

“My heart,” he repeats. _Alright, don’t be an idiot._ “Are you referring to my physical beating heart? The one that keeps me alive?”

“Don’t be silly; that’s worth nothing to me. I think you understand. Does it belong to anyone?”

“My heart?”

“Is there anyone who _needs_ your love? Who would be devastated to live without it?”

The smell in the air keeps shifting. It reminds him of pine now, and something earthy and damp.

There is a difference, Edmund thinks, between being wanted and being needed. Has he been loved? Probably, but only ever as a second choice.

Never quite like this.

“No,” he says, and saying it makes it truer somehow. “I don’t think so.”

“Well?”

“Your power? For my heart?”

“It doesn’t seem like such a high price to me. Not if no one is using it.”

“I could agree to that.”

“You could?”

“I do.”

She is moving toward him before he can react, pressing her lips against his. The taste of the kiss is sickly sweet, then with a hint of spice, then something that burns, burns all the way down his windpipe and into his chest. And then his heart, as if ensnared by vines from within, is clutched in a cold, vice-like grip, so painful it makes his knees buckle and his vision go white. He’s convinced for a moment he’s done it wrong, slipped in his words enough to allow a genuine, _very_ literal heart attack to seize him here and now. But the pain stops as quickly as it started, leaving only a mild tingling sensation in its place.

“My lady,” Edmund says, “I am yours.”

His mind is perfectly clear. He simply knows the words to be true.

“You are, my love,” the Queen agrees. “And I am so proud to call you mine.”

.

_Bend Luck – Starting at 6th level, you have the ability to twist fate using your wild magic. When another creature you can see makes an attack roll, an ability check, or a saving throw, you can use your reaction and spend 2 sorcery points to roll 1d4 and apply the number rolled as a bonus or penalty (your choice) to the creature’s roll. You_ _can do so after the creature rolls but before any effects of the roll occur._

The air in the throne room is tense. Edgar shifts in his seat, twisting the hem of his shirt around and around his finger. To his left, his father is watching the king intently, brows furrowed. To his right, Edmund scans the faces of the courtiers, betraying no emotion.

It’s strange that Edmund is here. Very strange, in fact. Illegitimate sons of any kind are rarely if ever invited to such formal proceedings, and the suspicion with which the all-human court views anyone with drow blood makes it even stranger. He sticks out like a sore thumb here, with his ashy grey complexion and the shock of hair so white it is rivaled only by the king’s.

Things appear to have been going better for Edmund lately though. At first, Edgar thought it was imagination that even their father’s most elite associates seemed to treat him with more respect than usual. But reluctant smiles and handshakes have morphed into pleasant conversations and invitations to dinners and now, apparently, to court. And all without an apparent sense of newfound moral enlightenment from any of the lords in question. Edmund just seems to be their only exception.

Edgar doesn’t know quite what to think of it. He feels glad, but strangely, mostly guilty. It wasn’t his doing. He’s never been as good as he wished at standing up to the people who looked down on his brother. He’s almost certain it wasn’t his father either. If this is possible for Edmund now, it must have always been possible, but neither of them actually did a thing.

King Lear is shouting across the throne room, bringing Edgar’s mind from one stomach-churning thought to another.

“Treason and murder! Banishment is no sentence for this! The man must die!”

The man in question – the _boy_ , Edgar thinks – has been the primary subject of today’s proceedings. A young scribe, not even of age, with a particular talent for rhetoric who wrote a rather witty letter to one of his friends implying that the king was getting on in years and things might be a bit more stable once rule had passed to one of his daughters. None of it _wrong_ , Edgar thinks, not that he’d risk his life by admitting that to anyone, and none of it with anything resembling murderous intent.

The king’s daughters are at his side today, as usual, though none of them have said much. Goneril, the oldest of the princesses, sits stiff as a board, lips pursed. Regan is leaning forward, smirking, an odd glint in her eye. Cordelia is stoic at the moment, but her eyes have been red-rimmed since she walked in, and Edgar suspects she may have tried to win over the king in private and likely not succeeded.

“He must die!” the king screams again. “He deserves worse than death, he deserves—he should be—”

“My liege—”

The voice comes from the Earl of Kent, one of the few lords Edgar quite likes, although he doesn’t know him particularly well.

“The king will speak! Give me a moment.”

“My liege. Please, if you would hear me. The boy meant no dissent. If he had meant the letter to spread a treasonous message, surely, he would not have included so many details about his mother’s cat and his flirtations with a local farm girl. He should be punished, but not so cruelly. Do not make a martyr for a movement that does not even yet exist.”

The moment hangs there, as if by a thread. Kent, breathing hard; the king, considering, not yet opening his mouth to speak. And Edgar’s whole body prickles as he gets the sense, out of nowhere, that he is capable of changing this. Not by much. Just a little push. But he could do it.

The back of his neck is heating up, his fingers tingling as if holding bits of lightning. He could. He _could_.

“Son.” His father’s hand is around his wrist, too tight, his eyes too knowing. “ _No._ ”

“He dies,” the king says, with a bit more lucidity this time. The moment is over.

A boy will be hanged tonight. A few courtiers mutter among themselves as they shuffle out of the throne room an hour later. The king’s mind was made up. There was nothing they could have done.

His father waits until they are well out of anyone else’s earshot.

“Edgar,” he hisses, “ _never_ think of that again.”

“I don’t…I don’t know what you mean?”

“Of course you do. You will learn to suppress it, in time. You must. That is your inheritance, son, as much as the funny little tricks. In the meantime, you will _not_ think of it, _nowhere_ , with _no one,_ and _never_ in the presence of a king.”

“I’m sorry,” Edgar chokes out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to try anything.”

“Can I trust you?”

The words take a moment to register. How could his father not?

“Yes,” he says, a beat too late, in a whisper that wants to be a scream. The tingling in his fingertips has barely diminished. “Yes, of course you can.”

By the time he as gathered himself, his father has already picked up his pace and fallen into a brisk walk, Edmund at his side.

.

_Illusory Script – 1 st level illusion. _ _You write on parchment, paper, or some other suitable writing material and imbue it with a potent illusion that lasts for the duration. To you and any creatures you designate when you cast the spell, the writing appears normal, written in your hand, and conveys whatever meaning you intended when you wrote the text. To all others, the writing appears as if it were written in an unknown or magical script that is unintelligible. Alternatively, you can cause the writing to appear to be an entirely different message, written in a different hand and language, though the language must be one you know. Should the spell be dispelled, the original script and the illusion both disappear. A creature with truesight can read the hidden message._

The letter is perfect. Edmund turns it over and over in his hand, examining the jagged shapes of Edgar’s penmanship that magic has replicated in a way his hand never could.

The message is subtle enough to be plausible, but should not leave his father in any doubt. References to his father’s age, to the unfair way dissenters get treated in this kingdom, to a lack of willingness to use his power, political or magical, to make any worthwhile change. Finally, the implication that Edgar has become more powerful. That with Edmund at his side, it would be easy to do what needs to be done.

None of the letter is lies, exactly. In fact, Edmund almost wishes it was true.

He is ready when his father comes in. He is agitated, mumbling about astrology, as if he wouldn’t have the power of half the stars in the heavens combined if he only put his mind to it.

Edmund pretends to fumble with the paper.

“What is that you have there?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“Nothing?”

He snatches it before Edmund can pretend to protest and begins to examine the letter. The effect is instant. The words, the hints, the unmistakable penmanship. Edmund can see the blood drain from his face.

“No,” he protests. “Edgar, he—where did you find this? Did someone bring it to you?”

“No one brought it to me,” Edmund replies, and he can’t risk adding, “no one…no one visible, at least. I just found it slid under my bedroom door.”

“And the writing—”

His father is frowning, holding the paper close to his eyes to see every detail. And yet he does not think, or dare, to even detect magic. It’s almost too easy.

“It is his. It looks like his, anyway. But I didn’t want to show you, I don’t know if it’s serious, I don’t even know what it means. The things he mentions…I don’t know anything about that, I don’t even know if it’s possible—”

“It _is_ possible.” The Earl of Gloucester looks older than Edmund has ever seen him. “I only thought…I only _hoped_ …not him. Not my son.”

_But you don’t really know your son at all_ , Edmund thinks, _do you?_

“I just don’t understand—”

“Nor do I—”

“—why he would ever ask _you_.”

The words have no right to sting as much as they do. Edmund’s fist clenches too tight as he fights to maintain a look of ignorant concern.

“Maybe because I’m no threat,” he suggests, trying to get back on track. “If I didn’t agree and tried to stop him, I wouldn’t stand a chance. But I could talk to him, seeing as he doesn’t suspect me. I could get you more proof. But even then, one wrong move and he could hurt me, even kill me if he tried.”

“He will do no such thing,” Edmund’s father says firmly. “The guards will see to that. I swear that much.”

So close to having an ounce of nerve, but so far. As if the guards could do a thing. It takes all of Edmund’s energy not to roll his eyes.

“But to me. To his father! I tried to make him understand. I tried to make him safe. A talented boy, but not a danger, never! No son of mine…”

His father is easy, in the end. Edgar, he fears, will be harder, but his fears prove ultimately unfounded.

“He’s furious. He suspects you of something. I don’t know what, or why.”

The words are vague enough, but Edgar looks stricken.

“It was an accident. I know it’s dangerous. I didn’t mean to do anything. I didn’t do anything, I wouldn’t have! Tell him that, Edmund, please!”

“I will,” Edmund says. “But _you should flee, hide from him until you know he isn’t angry anymore_.”

The recommendation sounds harmless, utterly reasonable, but he feels the arcane influence weaving its way through his words. The enchantment wavers, then takes effect as Edgar’s psyche fails to resist the magic he doesn’t even know is there.

Later, he will savour the sound of Edgar’s frantic footsteps running off into the night. He will laugh at the memory of his father’s shouts of horror and dismay. He will report these things back to the Queen, who will smile, as some otherworldly presence caresses Edmund’s face, and tell him everything is going to plan.

He will not report Edgar’s last, desperate, clinging hug, or the feeling of his father clapping him firmly on the shoulder in public for the first time in years. The price is small. What he has now is far greater. He has not sold anything worth missing.

.

_Disguise Self – 1 st level illusion. _ _You make yourself—including your clothing, armor, weapons, and other belongings on your person—look different until the spell ends or until you use your action to dismiss it. You can seem 1 foot shorter or taller and can appear thin, fat, or in between. You can’t change your body type, so you must adopt a form that has the same basic arrangement of limbs. Otherwise, the extent of the illusion is up to you. The changes wrought by this spell fail to hold up to physical inspection._

Who is this boy running headfirst into the dark without looking back?

Edgar cannot recognize himself. This desperate figure, fleeing, hiding, too afraid to face the world behind him, even if it means he will never see it again.

He ran. Why did he run? He did not have to run. At the time, it seemed like he did, like it was the only thing to do. But to run back now is to offer up his life into his father’s hands, knowing that he has not acted innocent.

He does not look like the good, dutiful son. He does not feel like him, not as he ducks his head and flinches at every passing sound, trying to hide his face. If the accusation leveled against him is that he is out of control, well, he does not feel in control, not like this.

His father must have felt this way before. His grandfather too, all of them. Some level of curiosity must have been inevitable for them. Unless it wasn’t. Unless he has become something beyond what they ever were and has been too late to realize.

What is he now? Not a son. Probably not a brother. Certainly not an heir.

_Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._

The rain is coming down in sheets. Thunder rumbles, distant, but fast approaching. He stops to stare at his reflection in a puddle, near unrecognizable to him, too recognizable to anyone else.

_Nothing. I am nothing._

His body is prickling again. His face is distorted by the constant fall of raindrops into the puddle where he stares.

It’s barely a decision. His image simply begins to morph. Matted hair, streaks of filth across his skin, scars marring his face and arms.

Whoever this sorcerer is, he isn’t Edgar anymore.

Nothing means nothing left to lose.

.

_Suggestion – 2 nd level enchantment. _ _You suggest a course of activity (limited to a sentence or two) and magically influence a creature you can see within range that can hear and understand you. Creatures that can’t be charmed are immune to this effect. The suggestion must be worded in such a manner as to make the course of action sound reasonable. Asking the creature to stab itself, throw itself onto a spear, immolate itself, or do some other obviously harmful act ends the spell. The target must make a Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, it pursues the course of action you described to the best of its ability. The suggested course of action can continue for the entire duration. If the suggested activity can be completed in a shorter time, the spell ends when the subject finishes what it was asked to do._

It's all happening so much faster than Edmund expected.

The plan has worked, presumably. There is no sign of Edgar, and no sign that his father doubts Edgar’s guilt. Already, he is receiving more favour, and not even having to enchant his way into it. He is a true son. The heir to Gloucester.

He didn’t need to be anything more, did he? Not for a while, at least, not until he had time to collect himself, set new goals and make something resembling a plan.

But he is not his father or his brother. Who would he be to ignore an opportunity?

There is almost too much information to take in. The king’s rapid decline, his breaking with first one daughter, then another, then his flight into a raging storm. The realization that the princesses are willing to act against him, that a power vacuum is appearing and will have to be filled soon enough.

(There are other things to take in too. The glances the king’s eldest daughter keeps throwing at him, for one. He has never felt so…admired, not by someone like her, never by a human of anywhere near her status. The all-too-familiar way she clutched her sister’s hand so tightly, like she was hanging on for dear life. The thought that he has never seen someone so strong and so powerful look so _lonely_ , but it’s too much to consider, too much of a distraction on top of everything else.)

And now, this.

His father paces back and forth, footsteps echoing in the empty stone hall, occasionally interrupted by the nearby rumble of thunder.

“They will not let me help him,” he mutters. “I can’t even open my own doors to him. Can’t even mention his name. It’s…it’s a coup, a proper coup, more treason in these strange times…”

“Horrible,” Edmund agrees. “What are you going to do? Surely you can’t let them take power from you in your own home?”

It’s not that he wants to be on his father’s side, at least not for long. They are better off without the king. There is no doubt of that. But if he would only show a willingness to do _something_ , it might change things.

“There’s nothing to be done,” the Earl of Gloucester says. “Nothing but…I’ll go find him. Help him, if I can. You’ll have to cover for me, son. Say I’ve gone to sleep. I stand no chance if the duke finds out, but I cannot stand by. He’ll die in that storm.”

“Of course. He won’t know a thing.”

Not without proof, anyway. If the Queen could give him the capabilities to compel belief, or to force the disclosure of the truth, she hasn’t yet.

“And not only that, but—no, it’s…it’s dangerous. I shouldn’t…”

Edmund takes a steadying breath. Illusions were one thing. He has tried this many times, but never on his father, never actually attempting to control his mind.

“ _Tell me._ ”

The suggestion comes out smoother than he could have hoped. The earl blinks once, twice, shakes his head.

“A letter from France,” he blurts out. “Their troops have landed. They plan to fight for the king, revenge what has been taken from him.”

“A letter?” The shock in Edmund’s voice is real. This is more than he could have hoped. “Where?”

“It’s…it’s too dangerous to speak of. No one can know…”

“Of course.”

The feeling is intoxicating. He can only try this so many times in a day, but if not now, when?

“ _Tell me where the letter is_ ,” he says, as gently as he can. “I’ll make sure it’s well-guarded and no one can stumble upon it.”

“My bedroom. The box beneath the panel under my desk.” He frowns, rubbing his temple. His agitation is mounting. “Edmund, I must go. Stay safe, please. Be careful. Do as I would.”

Without warning, his father throws his arms around him, so tightly as to almost break his focus. But he’s gone within a minute, rushing around a corner, out of sight.

_No_ , Edmund thinks. _I’m going to do so much more._

.

_Detect Thoughts – 2 nd level divination. F_ _or the duration, you can read the thoughts of certain creatures. When you cast the spell and as your action on each turn until the spell ends, you can focus your mind on any one creature that you can see within 30 feet of you. If the creature you choose has an Intelligence of 3 or lower or doesn’t speak any language, the creature is unaffected. You initially learn the surface thoughts of the creature—what is most on its mind in that moment. As an action, you can either shift your attention to another creature’s thoughts or attempt to probe deeper into the same creature’s mind. If you probe deeper, the target must make a Wisdom saving throw. If it fails, you gain insight into its reasoning (if any), its emotional state, and something that looms large in its mind (such as something it worries over, loves, or hates). If it succeeds, the spell ends._

It's difficult to make out anything in this storm. The figure trembling on the heath could be anyone, at least from a distance. The mad beggar. The untamed sorcerer. The boy running for his life.

It may as well be a dream. His dreams are usually something like this. Raw, wild, untamed forces of nature swirling around him. He does not resist them but becomes them. He gives in. He lets go. The power without becomes the power within.

In some ways, though, it is even stranger. Misery loves company, but Edgar – or, the boy they used to know as Edgar – never dreamed of company like this.

The servant attempts to hold his ground, standing strong against the oncoming elements. The words he shouts beg for reason, stability, sanity, before they are carried off by the mad howl of the wind. The fool shivers violently, eyes wild, his songs half sung and half cried. He sounds so very young. The king screams against the elements themselves, screams until his voice, his body, his heart, his _mind_ must break. And screams. And screams. And screams.

The beggar only wonders how it has come to this. He wonders what the rest are thinking.

He can find out. There is nothing stopping him. The thunder is loud enough to drown out his father’s voice in his head.

The servant is not what he seems. His thoughts are too formal, too learned in their tone to suit his status. He thinks of his lord, his king, the only person he lives for, the one he will protect with his dying breath. He thinks he is the only sane man left in the world. He is right, probably, although he may not be for long. The cracks are already starting to form.

The fool has never been more afraid in his life. Absurdity only thrives in a world that makes sense. Now, it leaves him unanchored, at the mercy of whatever will have its way with him. He always has been this helpless. He just didn’t know it. The longer he sings, the more he breaks.

The king reminds him of himself. He catches only a few coherent fragments. A cruel betrayal. A precious thing, once loved, carelessly thrown away. A plea not to lose something, but whatever that something was, it is already gone, leaving only something utterly shattered. Leaving _nothing_.

Lightning strikes, but not from the sky. It arcs out from the sorcerer’s body in all directions, the buzzing energy leaving his skin to hit their fragile human forms. He sees the servant stiffen and gasp. He sees the fool cower and whimper in pain. He _feels_ the king’s agony and ecstasy intermingled, the way he relishes the pain, the fact that nature finally appears exactly as cruel as it always has been.

The boy’s scream of horror comes out as a wild laugh.

“Get away from him,” the servant orders. “My liege, he is no beggar. This is a mage. He is not to be trusted.”

“This is a _king_ ,” the king says. “Don’t you see? No crown, no throne, no flatterers to kiss his feet. _This_ is power.”

The storm rages on.

.

_Beguiling Influence – You gain proficiency in the Deception and Persuasion skills._

Edmund’s power does not belong to him. That is the difference, even after everything, between him and his family. Their magic is theirs, even if they refuse to accept it. His magic will only ever be one half of a bargain.

It’s no matter, really. All he has to do is maintain it. He has to remember who it belongs to. It is just occasionally difficult, in some cases.

Goneril is one of those cases.

Spells are one thing. Those will never feel instinctive, he suspects; he is always aware of the Queen’s presence then. She is the one who guides his hands, whispers in his ear, caresses his every motion as the arcane power takes hold.

But there is more to it than spells, especially when it comes to Goneril. He would never enchant her. The thought did not even cross his mind. He has some code, after all, and even if he didn’t, that would defeat the whole gratification of it.

So he’d like to believe what they have, whatever it is, is untouched. That it belongs to him and her alone.

Still, his tongue feels smoother than it used to. He finds the right words with more ease. She never paid him mind before he had this, anyway. There is no evidence to suggest she would pay him any mind if it were gone.

No, it is not all his. And that’s fine. He can accept that. It is just possible to forget sometimes, when there is not something to remind him.

There is nothing to remind him the first time they kiss.

It is the sealing of an agreement, after all, a vow that they will work together from now on. Never mind the fact that he can tell she wants him as far more than an ally, that she just wants _him_ , and that _wanting_ gives him butterflies in his stomach like he hasn’t had for so long.

There is nothing to remind him when they fuck.

Carnal pleasure is as valid a tool as any of the magic, and besides, an end in its own right that is well worth pursuing. Never mind the fact that he almost prefers it later, that he is familiar with the pleasure _during_ , but the pleasure _after,_ when she curls her body around him and tells him to stay, is something entirely new.

There is nothing to remind him while they spend days together on the journey back to her home, though it is no true home for her. Nothing to remind him when it occurs to him that she might be falling in love with him – that is allowed, anyway, isn’t it? Nothing until he goes to leave.

She kisses him in her husband’s foyer, boldly, as if she doesn’t care if she is seen with him, as if she’d gladly stand before the world and claim him as her own. And it stirs something in him, something warm that starts in his chest but moves all the way from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Just for a moment, he isn’t thinking.

“Yours in the ranks of death,” he murmurs against her lips.

_Yours. Yours. Yours. Yours. Yours._

He should have learned by now, the power the words can have. He should know to be more careful.

Goneril smiles, pulling him closer. “My most dear Gloucester.”

_Mine._

The pain is instant and excruciating. Something tightens around his heart, cold and vice-like, constricting until he’s sure it will burst. He stumbles, clutching his chest, and she is the one who has to catch him.

“Edmund?” Goneril’s voice has risen with fear, at just the thought that something is wrong with him, and that alone is too much. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, but he’s not. She’s still touching him, steadying him, stroking his hair, and it feels so good, but every touch sends another pulse of pain through his chest and he’s not sure how many more he can take.

He jerks away from her, and at last, the grip loosens slightly. The only price is the look on her face.

“I have to go.”

“But—”

“Write to me,” he manages. “It’s okay, I just…I have to go.”

It only stops hurting when he leaves her, and that’s a different kind of pain to contend with.

.

_Major Image – 3 rd level illusion. _ _You create the image of an object, a creature, or some other visible phenomenon that is no larger than a 20-foot cube. The image appears at a spot that you can see within range and lasts for the duration. It seems completely real, including sounds, smells, and temperature appropriate to the thing depicted. You can’t create sufficient heat or cold to cause damage, a sound loud enough to deal thunder damage or deafen a creature, or a smell that might sicken a creature (like a troglodyte’s stench). As long as you are within range of the illusion, you can use your action to cause the image to move to any other spot within range. As the image changes location, you can alter its appearance so that its movements appear natural for the image. For example, if you create an image of a creature and move it, you can alter the image so that it appears to be walking. Similarly, you can cause the illusion to make different sounds at different times, even making it carry on a conversation, for example. Physical interaction with the image reveals it to be an illusion, because things can pass through it._

To think he had believed it couldn’t get any worse.

He was supposed to be through with this life. He was supposed to move on. He could grieve it, but not as Edgar, not as the son of the Earl of Gloucester.

But he is not sure if he could call the broken, blinded man before him by that title anymore.

He is too far gone, Edgar knows. He does not need a son. He does not need a sorcerer either, because as wild and potent as his magic has become, it is still not the right kind of magic. He can do nothing for this. What he needs is a miracle, and if Edgar has even an ounce of power in him, he will use it to give him one.

They went to Dover once, when he was a boy. He stood on the cliffs with his father and they stared up at the night sky and made their own miniature shooting stars.

“We must be close?” his father rasps, and Edgar feels a pang, seeing his anguish, and, worse, his relief.

“Yes,” Edgar replies, in a voice that isn’t his. “Nearly there. It’s a long way down.”

The cliffs, of course, are almost half a mile away. He does not need them for this.

He takes a step back, lowering his voice so that his father has no chance of hearing him casting. This plan is the last shred of hope for them both.

It starts with the sound of wind. It begins quietly, faintly, before picking up in volume as his father continues to walk. The air gets colder and carries the smell of salt. The cries of gulls pierce the open field, and the sound of distant waves can be heard from the flat, dry grass.

“Can you hear that?” Edgar calls, as if trying to be heard over the gusts of wind. “We are a foot from the edge of the cliff now. Be careful.”

“I am through being careful, boy,” his father mutters. “It only got me here. Leave me now. Let me hear you walk away.”

Easy enough to add the sound of retreating footsteps to the illusion. Easy, but Edgar’s heart is caught in his throat.

His father stands, swaying unsteadily, and it is not so hard to imagine he is on the cliff’s edge. He closes his eyes as if about to jump, but instead, he starts to speak.

“Edgar.” His voice comes in a harsh whisper. “If you made it out, I’m sorry. I think he did you wrong. I know _I_ did. We could have done something. I could have taught you how, before it was too late.”

He is falling before Edgar can even wipe his eyes. He reacts just in time to create the deafening, whipping wind for a few seconds, then, as his father hits the ground, silence. He has to focus now. A new voice. The sound of waves, much closer than before. A new disguise. Even if he had eyes, his father couldn’t see him cry.

“Sir?” Edgar calls, shaking his father’s prone body as he begins to stir. “Sir, are you alive? You look unhurt, but it can’t be. Can’t you see how far you fell?”

“How far…” he groans. “Is this the end?”

“The end? No, no, a new beginning! A miracle, it must be!”

“No,” his father says. “Get away. Let me die.”

“You are not meant to die today. Don’t you see, sir? You must be very special. The gods have chosen you. They have given you a gift.”

Edgar takes in a shuddering breath, hoping it cannot be heard above the illusory crashing waves.

“You cannot run from this.”

.

_Sworn and Beholden – A warlock is defined by a pact with an otherworldly being. Sometimes the relationship between warlock and patron is like that of a cleric and a deity, though the beings that serve as patrons for warlocks are not gods. A warlock might lead a cult dedicated to a demon prince, an archdevil, or an utterly alien entity—beings not typically served by clerics. More often, though, the arrangement is similar to that between a master and an apprentice. The warlock learns and grows in power, at the cost of occasional services performed on the patron’s behalf._

“Well? Are you going to say yes?”

Edmund is pacing. He strides to the back of the room, then to the door, tries the handle, finds it locked, and locks it again just for good measure.

“No one else can see me, you know,” The Queen laughs. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

No, he hasn’t. It’s not a question he had considered, or ever had cause to consider. And it’s not that he’s one to balk at pleasant surprises, but there have been a few too many in the past several hours.

The Duke of Cornwall is dead, for one. They say he was killed plucking out the Earl of Gloucester’s eyes. They say it was not a blade that did him in but a blast, an explosion of raw magical energy released in that last moment of torture. Proof enough for everyone that he was always a danger, a traitor from the start.

Good news, if Edmund can divorce his heart from it, and luckily, _her_ presence makes that easier. Still, he was not prepared for Regan to corner him with such a proposition, at least not so soon. He was not prepared to choose.

“I…have two options,” he begins slowly.

“Yes. One very good. One much better.”

“I don’t know that it’s quite that simple.”

“No?”

“I already made a commitment; I already pledged myself—”

“—to me,” the Queen finishes. “And we are going to do great things. You will be a king, my love. And I am already your Queen.”

Edmund exhales, forcing a measured smile.

“You never told me,” he says, “that I couldn’t engage in relationships with women for political purposes. Even for pleasure. That was not part of the deal.”

“Of course not,” she replies. “I see political gain. I see pleasure. You don’t think she’s attractive? I find her quite…formidable, for a mortal woman.”

He smirks in spite of himself. “Yes, she is.”

“So? I have your heart, but she is welcome to your hand. You’ll be one step from the throne, and we’ll both be very happy, no?”

_Yes_ , he wants to say. He could be happy. He _should_ be happy. It’s not that he isn’t at all. He’d be lying if he said Regan’s interest didn’t thrill him. Even a week ago, he would have given anything for this.

But Goneril’s ring, hidden in his breast pocket, feels very heavy. He wonders if the Queen can tell it is there.

He must be rational about this.

“Regan is a second child,” Edmund points out. “If there is going to be one queen, it won’t be her.”

“You would kill a duke,” the Queen counters. “And yet you would hesitate to kill a princess?”

“The Duke—the Duke of Albany is no ally of mine. He never will be. He is an impediment. _She_ is…useful to me.”

“What is it she can give you?”

“Her—her birthright—”

“Worthless,” she interrupts. “You, my love, are living proof of that.”

Edmund opens his mouth, but before he can form words, the Queen appears right in front of him. Her hand is cupping his face. Her lips are barely an inch from his.

“You need a royal wife,” she murmurs, and he can smell a dozen odd floral and herbal odors on her breath. “Regan needs a husband. She asks for your hand in marriage. _That_ is something that is yours to give.”

Her touch burns. His chest constricts, tighter and tighter, until he has to close his eyes from the pain.

“Unless you would rescind our little arrangement?” the Queen’s voice hisses in his ear, and each word brings another throb of agony. “Is that what you would do?”

And maybe it’s a testament to something that he’s almost tempted, if only for a second.

Tempted by what, though? Goneril will not love him without the magic. She will not love him with it, either, if she ever finds out what he has done for it.

If he wants to have anyone, he must have _her_. There is no other way.

When he opens his eyes, Edmund finds himself alone in an empty room. He goes to the desk and picks up a pen.

.

_Lightning Bolt – 3 rd level evocation. _ _A stroke of lightning forming a line 100 feet long and 5 feet wide blasts out from you in a direction you choose. Each creature in the line must make a Dexterity saving throw. A creature takes 8d6 lightning damage on a failed save, or half as much damage on a successful one. The lightning ignites flammable objects in the area that aren’t being worn or carried._

Magic is capable of a lot of things. Edgar has spent much of his life thinking about that, and just as much trying to push those thoughts down.

Now, they are at the forefront, which should leave him better prepared. He has changed everything about himself. He has peered into people’s minds. He has created miracles on earth, or something close to that, just to give his father hope again. He has entirely given up on control.

But it has always been instinctual. He has never known quite what he could do until he had already done it.

One moment, he is adopting a new persona, leading his father away from the imaginary cliffs. Then, he is face to face with the mad king, who rambles and raves and finally recognizes his weeping old friend, but only for a brief moment before he runs off to avoid the French forces who would bring him home. And even then, he has not had more than a few minutes to catch his breath when the man appears from over the hill.

Edgar registers a few things very quickly. He knows this man; he is the servant of the king’s eldest daughter. He has been sent to kill the Earl of Gloucester. He is armed, and Edgar is not, and they have no hope of outrunning him, and—

The lightning that springs from his hands is familiar, but more intense than any he has ever produced. It emerges from him in one condensed beam that catches the man square in the chest, lifting him off his feet before the singed body collapses to the ground.

_Dead._ The thought enters Edgar’s head without permission. He is _dead_. Edgar _killed_ him. To save his father, he can tell himself. What else could he have done?

Fought fairly, maybe? Taken the man’s sword, or even tried to use his hands? Like this, he never had any hope of surviving.

He cannot erase the knowledge now. Magic is capable of this. He is capable of this.

He finds a letter on the body. He scans if half just to find a distraction. The letter is addressed to Edmund, Earl of Gloucester.

_I don’t know why you left so quickly, but I trust you had your reasons. My feelings haven’t changed, and if you can get rid of my husband, I would give anything to have you in his place. You say you have ways to kill a man. In that, I trust you too._

_Until we meet again, my love,_

_Goneril_

The betrayal is one thing. The cruelty from his brother, his best friend once, the last person he trusted before everything fell apart. The question of why is too painful to consider.

(He has a sinking feeling, and the feeling is not really new. He should have done more. They all should have done more.)

The smaller questions nudge at him instead. How? How was Edmund, always shunned by the court until recently, able to secure a marriage offer from a princess? Why did he never stop to question Edmund’s advice so in the end, even when running only made his case worse? What did his father mean when he muttered, thinking Edgar could not hear, that he did not mean to tell him, did not want to, does not understand? Why plot murder so blatantly but be so secretive about the means?

Magic is capable of a lot of things.

Edmund always wanted it, didn’t he? How he could have got it Edgar cannot begin to guess. But if he did, no one else will stand a chance.

.

_Calm Emotions – 2 nd level enchantment. _ _You attempt to suppress strong emotions in a group of people. Each humanoid in a 20-foot-radius sphere centered on a point you choose within range must make a Charisma saving throw; a creature can choose to fail this saving throw if it wishes. If a creature fails its saving throw, choose one of the following two effects. You can suppress any effect causing a target to be charmed or frightened. When this spell ends, any suppressed effect resumes, provided that its duration has not expired in the meantime. Alternatively, you can make a target indifferent about creatures of your choice that it is hostile toward. This indifference ends if the target is attacked or harmed by a spell or if it witnesses any of its friends being harmed. When the spell ends, the creature becomes hostile again, unless the GM rules otherwise._

Sooner or later, Edmund is going to have to make a choice. That, or he’s just going to have to accept the fact that he’s essentially already chosen. The former feels impossible, but that’s not stopping him from resisting the latter.

There are too many uncertainties to plan for, is the thing. The battle hasn’t even begun yet. The Duke of Albany could die in the fight. Edmund could die, if he isn’t careful. All of them could be captured, the sisters dethroned, and choosing a queen would be the least of his problems.

The point is, if he could only wait a few hours, he might know enough to make a decision. It’s just that no one else seems to be demonstrating similar patience.

Regan is the first to corner him, pressing him up against the side of one of the tents, hands locked around his waist.

“Are you ready?” she asks, and is kissing him before he can respond, her lips hot against his collarbone.

It is all he can do to form a coherent response.

“As I ever have been, my lady.”

“Yes,” Regan murmurs. “And you know what is waiting for you on the other side. You know what I’m going to give you. My lord…” She leans in close, so close he barely has room to breathe. “…do not fuck this up.”

“Of course,” he manages, and then, “but they’re coming—”

He only just extricates himself in time for Goneril’s approach. She is with the Duke of Albany, although she looks miserable for it, so maybe this is his chance to get a moment to himself.

“I’ll go see to the troops,” he offers, but he cannot take two steps before Goneril is on him. She presses a hand to his chest, so blatantly, even as her husband looks on. Her touch leaves him elated, but her eyes are boring into him, and he wants to fall to his knees and stop the whole world if only for a moment to explain.

As if he could, without losing everything.

“I’ll come with Edmund,” Goneril says, shifting her eyes directly to her sister, who does not back down.

“You’ll come with _us_ ,” Regan counters, her smile cold.

“Why should I do that?”

“It’s far more convenient, don’t you think?”

“Convenient? Is that what you would call it?”

Their voices are rising, the argument already nearing a dangerous pitch, and the only good thing is that it affords Edmund a split second to slip out of sight.

His face is burning. He can still feel the hands on him; Regan’s on his waist; Goneril’s on his chest; a third, never far, still gripping his face too tight.

It’s all he can do to get the spell off without drawing attention and buy himself a minute or so. He includes himself in the radius too, in hopes that his heart might stop racing.

If he can’t even handle one argument without magic, how could he handle any of the rest of it?

“You all can go,” he suggests, stepping back out from behind the tent and into view of the sisters, whose expressions have noticeably softened. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

They both nod, their rage somewhat diminished, and head off together, leaving him a precious moment alone.

He is running out of time.

It’s a simple question, but that doesn’t make the answer any less complicated. Goneril? Regan? Neither of them? Hell, at this rate he’d take both.

And maybe he could have both, at least for awhile. What he cannot have is all three.

.

_Mage Armor – 1 st level abjuration. _ _You touch a willing creature who isn’t wearing armor, and a protective magical force surrounds it until the spell ends. The target’s base AC becomes 13 + its Dexterity modifier. The spell ends if the target dons armor or if you dismiss the spell as an action._

The field is burning. Shouts come in English and French alike. Metal clashes on metal, and all around, men fall.

This is war. Edgar never thought he’d live to see such a thing.

Now, he is only hoping he will live to see the end of it. It would be easier if he were only protecting himself.

His father cowers in their makeshift shelter, blind and disoriented as tremors rock the earth. Nearby, something explodes, sending bits of flaming shrapnel flying in their direction.

He will need his magic, but this is more important. He gets his hands on his father’s back just in time for the shimmering field to appear around him, deflecting anything that would do him harm. His father starts, confused, as if recognizing the spell, but more explosions come too quickly. He does not ask and Edgar does not explain.

When they survive this, Edgar will tell him the truth. Finally.

He does not anticipate yet that some words could do more to his father than magic ever could.

.

_Charm Person – 1 st level enchantment. _ _You attempt to charm a humanoid you can see within range. It must make a Wisdom saving throw, and does so with advantage if you or your companions are fighting it. If it fails the saving throw, it is charmed by you until the spell ends or until you or your companions do anything harmful to it. The charmed creature regards you as a friendly acquaintance. When the spell ends, the creature knows it was charmed by you._

This was the goal, wasn’t it?

The battle is won. The king and Cordelia are in chains. This is what winning is supposed to look like.

(Losing looks like the king clinging to his daughter, half-mad, almost glad to lose his station if he can gain her love in return. Losing looks like what Edmund never had, and has guaranteed he will never have again. No point dwelling on it.)

Edmund was the one who had the chance to make a deal for anything in the world and asked for power. He is getting exactly that. What more is he allowed to want?

The note is already prepared, flawless, neatly folded in his pocket. One more step and he’ll be nearly through with their plan. There will be no real threats left.

The spell takes hold effortlessly; the captain, a stranger only seconds ago, turns to Edmund with a smile, eager to please.

“Take this,” Edmund orders, holding out the paper. “Go with them to the prison, and follow the instructions. You’ll be rewarded; I can promise you that.”

“Of course, my lord. Right away.”

As the captain hurries off, Edmund breathes freely for the first time today.

One more task, and then he’s won. Then, maybe, he’s free.

_._

_Blight – 4 th level necromancy. _ _Necromantic energy washes over a creature of your choice that you can see within range, draining moisture and vitality from it. The target must make a Constitution saving throw. The target takes 8d8 necrotic damage on a failed save, or half as much damage on a successful one. This spell has no effect on undead or constructs. If you target a plant creature or a magical plant, it makes the saving throw with disadvantage, and the spell deals maximum damage to it. If you target a nonmagical plant that isn’t a creature, such as a tree or shrub, it doesn’t make a saving throw; it simply withers and dies._

He comes as a new boy. A man, in fact. An orphan. A new face, a new voice, and nothing left to lose.

“I come to challenge Edmund, Earl of Gloucester,” he calls out as he approaches. “A false lord. A conspirator. A traitor to his kingdom and his family.”

The camp is in chaos already. Regan is conspicuously absent. Goneril and the Duke of Albany each look ready to go for the other’s throat. But Edgar only has eyes for the man he used to call his brother.

Edmund turns to face him, perplexed but apparently indifferent. He is well-dressed, if slightly tousled from the battle, in a trim garment of black and green more than befitting his station. There is no doubt that he has risen fast and far.

“Who are you?” he shouts back. “Besides a liar?”

“I have no name. I have no face. They’ve both been taken from me. But I’m as worthy as you could ever be.”

Edgar leans forward, breathless, searching for any hint of hesitation on Edmund’s face. If he accepts, it can be a fair fight. If he does not, Edgar has no plan but flight or cold-blooded murder.

“You seem as good a man as any,” Edmund says slowly, still unflinching, “for me to kill to prove my innocence. Come on, then.”

In one fluid motion, he draws his sword and stands at the ready, waiting for Edgar to make a move.

“He has no sword,” the duke cuts in, offering a blade of his own. “Here—”

“I don’t need that,” Edgar says. The illusion, he hopes, hides the way he is trembling.

The icy ray shoots from his hand and flies less than an inch from Edmund’s head.

Magic. Blatant, hostile magic, in front of the highest lords of the land. The silence weighs a thousand pounds. Edgar just stands there, knees locked, arm still stretched out from where he cast the spell.

Edmund gives Goneril a long glance. He looks back at Edgar and raises one eyebrow, for the first time displaying a recognizable expression. Not fear. Not guilt. Pride.

He snaps his fingers and dark vines sprout all around his body, encasing his torso and limbs in a protective layer.

Edgar can only stare. He was _right_ , and it does not feel like triumph.

“Fine,” Edmund says. “I can play that way too.”

As usual, Edgar almost does not realize he is casting. His mind is stuck in years of memories, but the motions are natural. The rays of bluish magical force fly out one by one, striking his brother from various angles, hitting without having to be aimed. It’s a good thing, with how badly Edgar’s hands are shaking.

Edmund winces, shrugging off the blows, a new glint in his eye. The way he casts, Edgar notes despite his apprehension, is not like him or his father. The motions are more precise, more conscious, and the words sound smooth and ancient.

He braces for the pain, but it does not come. Instead, his head feels fuzzy. He blinks once, twice, but his vision is swimming, and even though he is panicked, he cannot remember what exactly he is supposed to be panicked about. He has to do something. He has to fight, but his brain cannot quite translate the thought into action. He ends up just standing there, staring straight ahead, unsure how to do anything else.

He is aware of Edmund laughing. He is aware of the two rays of dark green energy that shoot out from his hand, one hitting Edgar in the shoulder, the other in the hip. He is aware of the pain, and it is enough to bring his mind back into focus for long enough to shrug off the confusion.

He had suspected Edmund of playing with his mind, but feeling it happened unconcealed is an entirely new sickening feeling. This has to end.

Edgar inhales, embracing the energy already dancing across his skin, preparing to focus it into a single bolt. The lightning is the only spell he has that he knows, without a doubt, can kill.

But Edmund’s hands are moving too, and faster, and the lightning has barely left his hands when it is swallowed by a bigger field of arcane force and fizzles harmlessly into thin air.

Edmund is not hesitating. He blasts Edgar again, twice, and again, hits twice, sending him off balance. The pain is getting harder to ignore. Somehow it never occurred to him until now that he has not been on the receiving end of magic, at least not magic so clearly meant to hurt. Casting the spells comes easily. Withstanding them is a struggle.

He closes his eyes and thinks of the storm. A mad world. A night of pure chaos. But a moment of power, once he dared to embrace it, come what may.

Edgar feels the lightning strike before he opens his eyes. He feels Edmund shudder, the electricity coursing through him before he can get out of the way. He expects to see that. Instead, he sees something even brighter. His body is shining, bathing everything around him in radiant, blinding light.

Edmund recoils, trying and failing to shield his face. He fires off two more blasts, but one goes wide, and the other just barely manages to graze the side of Edgar’s arm. He is still enclosed in vines, but beneath them, the wounds are starting to show.

Edgar does not think. He does not have to.

The dark wave hits Edmund all at once, washing over him and coalescing in the center of his chest. The vines are the first to wither. They fall away, dry and useless, from his body, landing on the ground beneath him. Then _he_ is the one being drained of life. His skin fades to a duller shade of grey. Black streaks of necromantic energy permeate his chest, crawling closer and closer to his heart.

Edmund of Gloucester falls to the ground.

Edgar is still glowing.

.

_Creating a Warlock – As you make your warlock character, spend some time thinking about your patron and the obligations that your pact imposes upon you. What led you to make the pact, and how did you make contact with your patron? Were you seduced into summoning a devil, or did you seek out the ritual that would allow you to make contact with an alien elder god? Did you search for your patron, or did your patron find and choose you? Do you chafe under the obligations of your pact or serve joyfully in anticipation of the rewards promised to you?_

It is hard to think of a time in recent memory when Edmund’s chest was not aching, at least a little, but this is something new. He lies on the ground as the figures move around him, coming and going, as if taking every piece of the world he knows away one by one.

It’s getting hard to breathe.

Edgar is the one who did this. Because of course, _of course_ he is, who else could it ever have been? It’s not that he believes in fate, but it’s funny, isn’t it, how things always seem to come back around.

He laughs when Edgar drops the illusion.

“I knew it,” he mutters. “I knew you could do it.”

If things were different, he could be proud of his brother, almost.

Edgar always could have done it. And Edmund never could have done it, not without giving up so much, but now he has ensured that no one will be left to care.

He listens when Edgar starts talking, although the words blur together a bit. He makes himself hear the consequences he never had to see. He thinks, maybe it should hurt more, reckoning with all he’s done. He thinks, he will never be the cause of anyone’s heart bursting, except maybe his own.

If _she_ is here, she has not shown it. If she could save him, she is not planning on it. She has not even touched him.

No one has touched him except Goneril, who threw her arms around him and kissed his forehead and screamed that none of it was fair. But then she ran. Of course she ran, after seeing him like that. She always would have run.

He will die alone then, or worse. His father had Edgar. The king will have Cordelia. He has only the last few dregs of magic, which he is too weak to use.

From far off, someone screams. Heads turn. A servant rushes in with a bloody knife in one hand.

“She’s dead.”

“Who?” Albany’s voice, as if from miles away. “Who’s dead?”

“Your wife. The princess. Goneril. At her own hand. And her sister too; she poisoned her. She confessed.”

“What?” the duke is asking. “Why?”

“For me.” The revelation comes to Edmund’s lips near-silent, lost among the surrounding panic and clamour. “She did it for me.”

After he’d wronged her. After he’d broken his vow and made one with her sister instead. After she’d seen what he had resorted to in order to get this far. Still. _Still._

“She loved me,” he whispers. “I should have loved her back.”

The words are meant for him alone. He doesn’t think anyone is listening.

The familiar grip comes in seconds, like vines, like fingers, tight around his heart.

“Really?” Edmund mutters. “Now? It’s dying. What do you even want it for?”

The pain intensifies in response, grasping tighter until there are tears in his eyes.

Edmund laughs. The most powerful being he’s ever encountered, the one who essentially owns him, is threatening his life, dying though he is. It’s incredible how little he can bring himself to care.

She has nothing left to offer him. What was it worth, in the first place? So many dreams of what she could give him, and now the only thing worth clinging to is what he could have had if she was gone.

Too late for him now. Too late for Goneril, for Regan too, who he did feel something for, even if it wasn’t the same. But maybe not for everyone else.

“They’re going to kill the king and Cordelia,” he chokes out, using the last of his breath. His chest screams in response, but Edgar’s head whips to face him, and that’s all he needs. “They’re going to hang them in prison. Find the captain. There’s a spell on him; you have to break it. There’s still time.”

The camp is sent into a new state of chaos. People are running, shouting. Edgar is shaking his shoulders, and he might be asking something, but the words are lost to the singular, white-hot agony overwhelming his senses.

Something is breaking. He will not live to see if anything gets fixed in its place.

“Take it if you want,” Edmund whispers. “It’s not yours.”

.

_Wish – 9th level conjuration. Wish is the mightiest spell a mortal creature can cast. By simply speaking aloud, you can alter the very foundations of reality in accord with your desires. The basic use of this spell is to duplicate any other spell of 8th level or lower. You don't need to meet any requirements in that spell, including costly components. The spell simply takes effect. […] You might be able to achieve something beyond the scope of the above examples. State your wish to the DM as precisely as possible. The DM has great latitude in ruling what occurs in such an instance, the greater the wish, the greater the likelihood that something goes wrong. This spell might simply fail, the effect you desire might only be partly achieved, or you might suffer some unforeseen consequence as a result of how you worded the wish._

If this is not the end of the world, Edgar isn’t sure what such a thing would mean.

He has gone through the deaths so many times that he feels more numbness than grief. He has tried to make a list of all the things or people that might be worth living for and found he could count them on one hand.

But he _is_ alive. That alone is a responsibility now. Just one more he never asked for.

They will accept him. It is hardly a matter of choice. With only three prominent lords left, they will forgive one of them having taken his magic too far. The circumstances were what they were, the Duke of Albany told him, a bit too understandingly. They will not hold it against him, so long as he can be safe. Why couldn’t he, after all? His father always kept the peace. Edgar will be the same.

There is still a residual glow on Edgar’s skin when the duke tells him these things, all the while consciously averting his eyes. There is still energy buzzing through his fingertips, though of course, he will not mention it.

There is nothing he could have done, Edgar tells himself. The words become a mantra. It was beyond him. It is beyond him. There is nothing he can do.

Yet.

_You could shape the fabric of reality with a word._

It’s normal, he supposes, to think he hears the voices of the dead. He killed his own brother; of course Edmund is tormenting him now. Why it is Edmund from over a year ago is a separate question, but not one that needs answering at a time like this.

_You could wish for something, anything, and it would happen._

But not now. Even if he was willing to take that risk, he could not do it now. That kind of magic could take months, even years, and that would be if he dove straight into it without looking back. He would have to keep pushing, constantly. It would be a long, dark road into chaos and madness, and he would have to walk it alone.

Or he could stay. This is where they need him. He could be safe here. He could be wanted. He could repair things, instead of trying to break them all over again.

Tonight, he will bury the entire royal family. Beside them, he will bury his father and brother. He will begin the slow, thankless process of rebuilding the world, and wonder if what is left of it is worth protecting.

_You could change it, if you wanted._


End file.
